Breeder

I'm on in my bed, naked, with my hips high up in the air, my weight on my shoulders and feet. Richard's forcing me to keep as much of his semen in me as possible. I can almost feel his sperm sliding down my vagina into my cervix.

I would rather not have sperm anywhere near my eggs. Richard and I have different goals. But he's a man; in New America that means he wins.

I'm not attractive any more – I'm 34, and I've had nine children. Richard's hoping his sperm start number ten.

I'm a broodmare -- somebody's sperm will succeed.

When can I stop holding this pose? My muscles are getting sore. I should be helping with dinner.

My vagina is pointed at him. Meanwhile, he's sitting in a chair, fully dressed in his work clothes, working on some paper on a clipboard. Absorbed in whatever he's doing, not even looking at me.

The men of New America work hard. Providing for my children. Earning money, so the community can survive. Growing food, raising animals, buying supplies. Running security so no one gets in. Or out.

I remember, before coming here . . .
Men treated me like my feelings were important.

I can smell his semen. And my sweat. And the dinner I should be helping with. My muscles are getting really sore.

He thinks that if he left, I would just let his sperm drip out. I used to douche, but Sister Cherone told me douching doesn't help.

I remember . . .
being able to look things up on the internet

But Cherone said this embarrassing position doesn't do anything either – my cervix has already gobbled up whatever sperm it can and is now traitorously carrying them to my probably fertile egg.

That doesn't unwaste my time or make my muscle pain stop. I don't argue with the men of New America. I got slapped once.

New America wants me pregnant. I don't have a vote. I just have a body designed to be penetrated. A body with healthy, waiting eggs. A uterus ready to make a baby. Breasts to feed a newborn.

I'm so so tired of being a fertile female.

I remember, as a young girl . . .
I realized my body could create a new human being. That seemed so amazing. I was proud of myself. I was proud of my body.

I'm so weary of creating new human beings. It's an incredible amount of work. Each one. I feel used.

My body doesn't belong to Richard either, it belongs to the community of New America. But he's allowed to use me whenever he wants. Today, because I'm fertile, he can even try to use my uterus.

I remember . . .
Men staring at my body with desire. I was attractive when Lucas brought me to New America.

I'm 25 pounds overweight – that has to disinterest him. I know I should try to lose weight, but I'm just going to get pregnant again and I would gain all the weight back again.

I do have my own bedroom, nine children, and a role here. I'm more valuable than a cow, or even three cows. Maybe even as valuable as the solar paneling that used up all of their cash last year.

My name is, well, Grace, but no one calls me that. The children call the fertile women Mom; after menopause the children call them Grandma. The fertile woman call each other Sister, so I am Sister Grace to them. The men also call me Sister Grace, or they just point and grunt.

The timer on Richard's phone bings, and he says without looking up at me, "Good enough. Thank you."

I didn't have a choice. "You're welcome." He still isn't looking at me.

I collapse onto my mattress. I wipe myself with a tissue and climb out of bed, appreciating how easy that is in my temporarily unpregnant body. I like not being pregnant.

I remember . . .
taking my unpregnant body for granted. I could move quickly and easily; I could sleep on my stomach whenever I wanted.

I put on my plain, 40D bra.

I remember . . .
shopping at Victoria's Secret . . .

I put on my all-white panties.

 . . . wearing thongs and feeling sexy . . .

I put on my white socks.

 . . . panty hose . . .

I wiggle into the old brown shift I was wearing, then put on my shoes and tie the laces.

 . . . wearing clothes that made me look attractive, sometimes even sexy. High heels!

Richard is still working as I open the door and walk out into the common room.

It's a huge room, filled with children and women. Sister Maria, seven months pregnant, is holding Andrew and a bottle and walking towards me. She was waiting for me so I can be the one to feed my own baby.

Maria hands Andrew to me and asks conspiratorially, "Do you have time to feed him? I need to help Sister Andrea." Maria was supposed to feed Andrew if he was hungry, not wait for me. It's their stupid-male notion of being a community and we're all mothers to all of the children.

I remember yesterday . . .
I almost died with anger when I saw Sister Elena breastfeeding Andrew. That cow.

A grateful smile and a "Thanks" gush out of me. Andrew is fussing, like he's been hungry for a little while, but probably not too long; Maria would have fed him if he was.

I hold Andrew close and squeeze him tight. He feels so good. Maria hands me the bottle, already warm, and I start feeding him. For six months, I breastfed Andrew, but now he's on a bottle. I smell his diaper, but it's clean. I'm not surprised; Maria's good.

I look around. Faith, who's almost two, is marching around with about seven other children. She has a big smile on her face. That parade is being led by Sister Elana, who's breastfeeding. Victoria, my four-year old, is with some girls in the corner playing house. They're talking about something so earnestly. Thomas, my three-and-a-half year old, is part of a coloring activity. He looks so serious. Grandma Phyllis is leading that, she went through menopause last year.

Richard walks out of my room, and about ten children run up to him for attention, including Faith. A few of the men here are natural fathers. Richard isn't. He's a self-centered asshole, and a good worker. His hard work helps provide for my children and me.

But he smiles at all of the kids, I see Faith and the children smiling back, and he tousles a few heads, though not Faith's. She looks disappointed when he starts to leave.

He doesn't really know who's his child and who's not. So he can't give anyone special attention, but he can't exactly ignore them either. I don't remember if Richard had sex with me when I was pregnant with Faith, and neither does Richard. But she doesn't look like she's his daughter. They follow him to the door, then he's gone. Out into the real world.

Andrew is so determinedly sucking milk.

Kenneth, Philippe, Rebecca, and Anna are in school now; they should be home soon. I hope they're all okay. Laura is 12, so she now helps out with the work here instead of going to school. I look around for her and don't see her. I get a little flutter of anxiousness, but she must be in the kitchen.

I remember when I was close to giving birth to Laura . . .
I worried constantly that my milk wouldn't come in. Or that she would just reject my breast. What would I do? How would I deal with that failure?

It did, she didn't, and I felt the wonder of giving life and sustenance to her. I felt so much love. I felt so much pride in being a mother. It was wonderful just to be that needed.

By the time Andrew suckled from me, I was tired of engorged breasts. I was tired of chaffing and being a feeding station. But I still had that overwhelming feeling of caring for him, despite being stretched so thin in the caring department.

I now understand – my brain is programmed to care for my children. I can't stop that from happening, it's just part of whole pregnancy-feeding-mother package.

Sorry Andrew, your parasite days are over. It's possible to get pregnant when breastfeeding, but not as likely, and New America wants more members.

He's sucking more slowly now. I don't think he cares where his milk comes from. I can feel his contentment, overwhelming me with happiness.

I have spent four and a half of my last 13 years breastfeeding; almost seven of those years I have been pregnant.

Freighttrain, I think that's still his name, walks in. Oh shit. He walks up to me and points at me. "You."

My name is Grace. I explain, "I just had sex with Mr. Richard."

"It's your fertile period, right?"

I shrug helplessly. "Yeah."

"The more sperm the better."

Fuck. What are the chances of me not getting pregnant this month? Not very good.

They need me to cook dinner. It's not fair for me. I'm feeding Andrew. Those seem like good excuses to me, but I do not make men angry before they have sex with me. "Yes, Mr. Freighttrain." I hand Andrew and the bottle back to Maria, who has already come back to me; she'll have to finish feeding him.

Men over the age of 45 aren't allowed to procreate with premenopausal women here. They aren't considered as virile. And that reduces the chances of a man having sex with his daughter, though I'm not sure that's an issue for them. Freighttrain looks like he has only a few years left. So his biological clock is ticking.

So is mine, but painfully slowly. I have time for probably six more children. That's quite a life to look forward to.

I wonder what the record is for number of children. Probably over 20. I remember when I could look things up on the internet. I don't want to break any records.

I remember . . .
I wanted to have two children.

Freighttrain starts undressing and expects me to do the same.

I remember . . .
Lucas would slowly take off my clothes. It was erotic, for both of us. Men always smiled at me when I took off my clothes. Or looked lustful or excited. They never acted like I was something on their to-do list.

Freighttrain is already hard, saving me time and trouble. And I guess that's a tiny prop for whatever's left of my female pride. Ugh, I'm so pathetic. Freighttrain! I give up on having any pride.

I remember . . .
Lucas's lips, at first softly on mine, then pressing into my lips with his passion, then his tongue entering my mouth. After that, his kisses trailing down my neck, my chest, and then to my breast.
His hands, roaming my body, exploring me, fondling me, probing me, exciting me.

Freighttrain opens the Vaseline on the side of my bed, greases his cock, lays on top on me, and penetrates me. Years ago that would have hurt.

I remember . . .
Lucas worrying about whether or not I enjoyed sex with him. He hoped I would have an orgasm. I sometimes had to pretend, but he cared about me. I thought I deserved that.

Freighttrain doesn't really notice me, even though he's fucking me. At least I don't have to pretend anything. He doesn't care about my excitement; neither do I.

I remember Lucas bring me to New America . . . .
I was in love. We were in love. I was four months pregnant with Laura. He was so enthused about coming here – a community where we could build our own world and be free; something great we could give to our children. I was following him, being with him.

We were building a life together.

I didn't get all of the facts. Maybe he didn't know them either. His name now is Hammer, the men change their names occasionally, reasons unknown. Maybe he doesn't want me to remember what we once had together. Probably he doesn't want to remember. I hope he feels guilty.

I remember the worst day of my life. I was eight months pregnant with Laura. . . .
"What the hell? Lucas?"

He looked up me, surprised, then very embarrassed. He responded defensively, "What, Sister Grace?"

"You're coming out of Rachel's room, and you're zipping up your – Ow, did you just pinch me?"

"She's Sister Rachel. I explained this to you, Sister Grace. We're trying to join a community here. To fit in, and help it be stronger. A community is built on traditions and rules. You're supposed to call her Sister Rachel."

I tried not to scream at him. I tried not to hit him. "You are coming out of Sister Rachel's bedroom, and you're zipping up your pants. Did you. Just. Have. Sex. With. Sister Rachel?"

"We shouldn't talk here. Let's go outside."

"It's cold outside."

"Get a coat."

We went outside, him walking and me trailing behind and waddling as fast as I could, wearing a coat that didn't button. He stopped and turned around to me. I walked up to him, I looked him in the eye, my pregnant belly pushing into him. "Tell me. Did you have sex with Rachel?" He pinched my neck. "OW! You don't have to pinch me so hard. Sister Rachel."

"Yeah, I did Sister Grace."

"We're supposed to be married, Lucas. OW, stop pinching me, God damn it. Mr. Lucas."

"Yeah, I know that. But you're like . . . "

"I'm like what?" I was almost screaming at him.

"You're eight months pregnant, Sister Grace. For God's sake."

"You can still have sex with me." I said that quietly.

"You're like a cow."

I felt like he had pressed a knife into my heart. I mean, I felt like a cow. That was maybe why it hurt so much. But I was carrying his baby. For eight months. He owed me A LOT. Respect. Love. Support. He was supposed to be telling me I didn't look like a cow.

"That doesn't mean you can have sex with Ra – Sister Rachel." He pinched me anyway.

"Sister Grace, the guys tease me. If I have sex with just you, they say I'm not a real man. Don't you see? I have to have sex with other Sisters. It's the only way I can fit in. The only way we can fit in."

"What?" I pulled away. I couldn't believe what he just said. I turned away from him and started to cry. Suddenly I felt 8-months pregnant and totally helpless and alone. "You've had sex with other women?"

"Of course."

I felt Laura kick me. It wasn't a loving kick, it was just a kick and I happened to be in the way. It didn't hurt. Lucas was kicking me in the mouth, hard. I guess my desires were in his way.

I turned back to him and looked up at him, pain all over my face. "And I'm supposed to go another month of knowing you're having sex with other women?" Please apologize.

"That's the way it is here."

I pushed my face up to his and said angrily, "Well, you're married to me. You can't be having sex with other women."

I had come here with him. I had followed him. I wanted to support him. I wanted to follow the rules. But this was too much. "Just stop. No more. Do you hear me?"

He slapped me.

And my world shattered, and the earth opened up and ate me. And I suddenly knew nothing. Nothing. My mind was blank. He had hit me.

I didn't know what to do. I didn't know what I should do. I had no idea what I could do. I kept existing, but that was just inertia.

I was cold, and there was nothing left for me outside with Lucas. I turned around and walked away from him. Now I could feel that pain on my cheek.

I walked into the common room. Could everyone see my red cheek? They looked up at me, then the Sisters looked away and the children stared, probably because tears were streaming down my face.

I went into our bedroom and lay in bed. I wrapped my arms around myself and hugged my baby-to-be, but I felt no excitement about the future. I was too upset to sleep much. Lucas didn't come to our bedroom that night.

He never again spent the night with me.

Eventually my grief gave way to anger. About the time the sun came up, my anger disappeared and I gave up. I rolled out of bed, to help with breakfast even though I was 8-months pregnant.

That morning my life had changed. Even though everything was the same on the outside, I was now a woman in the community of New America.

If I could have, I would have stopped being pregnant. But the world doesn't work that way. Laura had a different agenda too. And I already loved her and she too had all the power over me.

But my life had become a Stephen King horror story.

Freighttrain speeds up, I see his face grimace, and he cums. He pushes inside me as far as he can. He holds himself inside me as long as he can, then when his penis wilts he climbs off me.

He still doesn't look at me. He's not ignoring me, he just forgot about me. He has other things to do.

I have to have sex with any man, upon demand. Or request. Or pointing. The men need sex; the women provide. But during my fertile time, it's so many men. Helping to make sure I get pregnant. Being a bull to me.

They're also hoping the child will have their genes. You have to buy a lottery ticket if you want to be the winning bull.

I hate my fertile times. I don't have them very often.

I love having my period. Then I'm not pregnant for another month. I've had my period only 11 times in the last 13 years. I'm a good breeder. Large pelvis. Big breasts. No miscarriages. Easy to impregnate. The perfect female.

I remember . . .
Lucas would talk to me after we had sex. I would cuddle against him.

Freighttrain stands and starts getting dressed. For the second time in 20 minutes, I wipe the sperm off myself and dress. This much sex is ridiculous.

He's out the door first. He takes a boy and throws him into the air, then catches him. Of course all the children then want that, so he gets mobbed. I stand in my doorway and watch. He's good with the kids.

When Faith, Thomas, and Victoria have all had their turns, I check on Andrew. who's sleeping, and then walk into the kitchen, where I find Laura. She's helping fix dinner; Sister Helene is in charge. It's so amazing to see Laura growing up. To see her competence. And her confidence in herself. I give her a big smile, and she smiles at me too. "Are you coming to help, Sister Grace?"

I'm your mother, not Sister Grace. "I would love to help." I nod to Sister Helene, who assigns me to making the hamburger paddies. I ask her how she's doing. She shrugs. "Okay." She's seven months pregnant and looks great, just tired. We all look tired. I think this is her tenth pregnancy, with three miscarriages.

I see the little nubs starting to be Laura's breasts. She stands like she's proud of them. She's wearing a tight, thin t-shirt so they stick out. Slut. It's hard for me not to dread when she fills out and her body is used for sex and having children. Smile now, Laura, while you can. Enjoy your youth.

We're about half-way done with cooking dinner when Freedom walks into the kitchen. He nods to Laura and Helene. "Evening, Sister Helene. Looking good." She says thank you, in a weary voice. "Evening, Sister Laura." Laura gets a big smile on her face. She's already flirting. He looks at me. "I want to make a donation."

I wince. Sex with three men in less than an hour? Did they put up a notice saying to have sex with me? Maybe now there's a rule that all the men have to have sex with me once during my fertile time.

"I'm cooking dinner, Mr. Freedom. Can it wait?"

He pinches my arm. Not as hard as he could, but hard enough to make his point. Humiliating me in front of my daughter. Laura looks shocked. She says, I assume to defend me but then I realize not, "Bad Sister Grace."

Because he punished me, she assumes I'm wrong. Her own mother! She's on his side. New America has been very successful in their education.

That might be best for her. I hope she fits in here. I hope she's happy. If fitting in means thinking that she exists just to make babies for men, well . . . I hate the thought, but least she won't know anything better.

Anyway, she won't have a choice. Enjoy your life, Sister Laura, you traitor. New America took her from me.

I walk with Freedom to my bedroom, he closes the door, and I take off my clothes and lay in bed. Freedom's the kind of guy who would buy flowers for his girlfriend on Valentine's Day and then forget and leave them in his car. The next day he would bring her the wilted flowers and hope he still got credit for the thought.

He says, "You are so beautiful, Sister Gail." He always says that, though usually he gets my name right. He isn't even looking at me. When he gets his clothes off, he turns to me, sees that I'm ready for him, and starts masturbating to get hard.

I don't think he realizes that's insulting. But I'm used to it, and it's very convenient for me. When he's hard, he climbs on me, spits into his hand, wipes his saliva on his penis, and enters me.

I remember when . . .
Sex was passionate and romantic.

I'll always be Laura's mother. But I think we crossed a line today. I momentarily hated her. And she was treating me like an equal. Sister Laura indeed, she's still just a child. But that isn't how this community works, and women don't make the rules.

It's a life of hard work. For the men, like Mr. Freedom, this community speaks to their dreams of freedom and self-reliance. Plus they get free sex on demand. The women here were dragged along by husbands and boyfriends. It's still hard work, and we're the supply of free sex.

I remember before coming here . . .
I decided which men fucked me, and when they fucked me, so they had to worry about my needs, and my happiness. They had to treat me as an equal, because I demanded that.

Now they don't. They're free. Free from government control. And I never realized it, but free from women controlling them, free from political correctness, and free from the demands of the women's movement.

That's their idea of a real man. And maybe I'm their idea of a real woman. Except for my extra 25 pounds of course.

They're not completely free, they still have the laws they make for themselves. But that's being a part of a team. Men love teams.

And they can still treat me politely and respectfully. And not physically abuse me. But it's a favor. A generosity.

So there are about three times as many men as women. Free sex can do that – a big attraction for the men; not so much for the women. The discrepancy in numbers is a problem.

But the odds will get better. Sister Monique is 16. She's lived here her whole life. She just got pregnant, though she isn't showing yet. She could break the record for number of children. Sister Andrea is 14. She'll be available for sex and having babies soon. And there's Laura and two other girls about her age.

I'm distracted from my thoughts by Freedom cumming inside me. He enjoys the feeling, then pulls out and kisses me on the lips. He always does that, with the passion of licking an envelope before sealing it.

I wipe as much of his sperm off of me – and out of me because he's not paying any attention – as I can. We both get dressed. He ignores the children as he leaves.

And then I'm back in the kitchen. Sister Helene has two more women helping her, and Laura is still helping. They're finishing up. Laura says, "Sister Grace, could you help me with the carrots?"

Are you trying to be annoying? I smile as nicely as I can. "Sure." What has she got against me? Is she jealous of my breasts? I've seen her occasionally looking at them.

As I'm cutting and slicing carrots with Laura, Lucas walks into the kitchen.

My heart starts to beat faster. After all these years, the sight of him still can excite me.

Laura smiles coyly at him and says, "Hi, Mr. Hammer." She's flirting with her father. He looks at her chest and then gives her a friendly but fatherly hello, then looks at Sister Monique, who's turned away from us and working at the stove. His eyes study her. I can see his cock getting hard. She's young. Thin. Attractive. Not worn down.

Obviously he wants to have sex with Monique, but when one of us is fertile, he's supposed to have sex with her. So he says, "Is anyone here fertile?"

I raise my hand wearily. He sees my hand, then says, "Oh, Sister Grace."

"Hi Mr. Hammer." I envy Laura – I want to flirt. I try to smile sexily at him, but in my head I'm counting how many men I've had sex with in the last hour and I'm pretty sure my smile isn't sexy.

He says, "I guess we should have sex."

I say, mimicking his lack of enthusiasm, "I guess so." But he doesn't notice. He concentrates again on Sister Monique's ass as she stirs something on the stove. She has a good ass. I don't. I get it.

He doesn't get up. Maybe we could sit here all day. But I want to have sex with him. I don't know why, but I want my next child to be his, or at least I want to be able to think it might be his. I stand up. He notices me again, then also stands up. I walk to my bedroom; he follows.

I enter, he follows, and he shuts the door. I take off my clothes and lie down in bed. He has taken off his clothes. He says, "You're still beautiful, Sister Grace." My name is just Grace.

But I love hearing him say I'm beautiful. I'm almost crying with happiness. He adds, "No one excites me like you do."

My heart drops – he went too far, and I remember Monique. My tears of happiness stop, my heart hardens, and I look at his cock. It's soft. That's how excited he is to see me.

I stand up, take him to the bed, and lie him down. Then I start sucking his cock.

It takes a while to get him hard. His eyes are closed, I don't know what he's thinking about. When he gets hard, I suck some more just to be sure, then I take his place lying on the bed, I quickly pull him over on top of me, and slide him into me. He starts fucking me.

I remember after that night . . .
I kept expecting Lucas to one day come back to our bedroom. He didn't, he stayed in the men's dormitory. Even though he deserted me, I foolishly expected him to come and help with Laura's birth. I got lots of help, from the women here and one male who was the closest thing to a doctor they have. So I wasn't alone, and I had help. There was just no Lucas.

I foolishly expected him to help with the first month of taking care of Laura. He didn't. I had help, just not his.

After my body had mostly returned to its normal size, I expected us to go back to having sex with just each other. How could I be that stupid? Was I blind? No, I couldn't have voluntarily faced the truth.

I was spoonfeeding one the older infants one night while I watched him walk into Sister Rachel's room. Another night I was breastfeeding Laura and watched him walking into Sister Maria's room. Then, for a couple years, whenever he came into the common room, I fled to my bedroom so I wouldn't have to watch.

Lucas smiles as he thrusts into me again and again, but he has his eyes closed; when I make a noise like I'm excited, he doesn't notice. So he's probably thinking of someone else.

To him, right now, I'm just a vagina.

I remember the second worst day of my life . . .
Leader came into my bedroom when Laura was two months old. I didn't know why he was there. Had I done something wrong? Not that I could think of. Was he just checking up on me? He visits everyone to talk?

I was lying on my bed. I sat up. He sat on my bed, which was a little too intimate. I began to get nervous about what was going to happen to me.

"Now, Sister Grace, you are such a wonderful new addition to our Community."

"Thank you." This wasn't going well.

"And everyone likes you, and you're contributing so much. That's so appreciated. Giving birth to Laura, I know that's a lot of work."

It was a labor of love. I just nodded. I didn't really have a choice. I don't think of Laura as a contribution to your community.

"Sometimes, people don't fit in to our community. I'm not sure why. But then it's hard on them. The community gets angry at them."

The threat.

He shook his head with regret. "We should show each other love and compassion, I tell them that, but we can't blame them for getting angry at someone who isn't helping. We're building a community here."

Pretending to want to help me. Claiming he can't.

He smiled sadly. "So the people who don't fit in get treated badly."

I tried to smile and nod, pretending like he wasn't talking about me.

"Of course, sooner or later everyone learns to fit in. They have to. And it's not that difficult." He put his hand on my knee in a fatherly way that didn't feel fatherly to either of us.

"But it's easier on people when they fit in right away." He left his hand on my knee.

My throat closed and I couldn't make a sound. I tried to take my stupid smile off my face, but my face was frozen.

And as Leader talked to me more, about the goals for New America, and what they had accomplished, and what still lay ahead, he took off my clothes, then his.

Then he stopped talking and raped me.

I never fought him. Not the first button, and not the last. Not when he entered me, and not when he came in me. I was frozen, inside and out. And fighting was a waste of time. They expected things. And they got what they wanted, even if they had to take it by threat or force.

I'd seen men going into Sister's bedrooms and having sex with them. I'd watched Lucas do it. But I thought it was consensual. That the men were invited. Or welcomed in, with permission. I didn't know the women had no choice. Now I knew.

I had been angry with Sister Rachel for months. But the man who brought her here, Richard, has fucked me more times than I can count. I might have had one of his children. She might have had one of Lucas's. A few of our children could be half-brothers or half-sisters.

Then Lucas grimaces, and cums, and pushes hard into me. When he opens his eyes and sees me, his smile goes away.

After all of these years, that still hurts. He's the only man I ever loved. But if there's anyone here I should hate, it's him.

He quickly pulls out and starts getting dressed as quickly as he can – he wants to escape. I clean myself with a tissue, for the fourth time this afternoon, and try to dress quickly too, but before I can he's out the door.

When I finally get out, he's gone. I hope he feels guilty. I hate that any man here can treat me like a piece of livestock, just something to fuck. But it hurts the most when Lucas treats me that way.

I remember after Lucas stopped sleeping in my bedroom . . .
I thought about leaving New America. But I was eight months pregnant with Laura, so that wasn't very practical.

And then I was a new mother. Night after night being woken up by a crying baby in my room. Not getting enough sleep. A baby constantly wanting to feed from me.

Plus I still had to help. Meals to fix. Other children to feed. Cleaning. I was too busy to think.

And, I could look at Laura and just hold her. I could feel my heart aching with love. And we were being taken care of. I knew my life was all wrong, but all I felt was this warm circle of perfection with Laura in the center.

So I knew I was going to leave, but I didn't have time to think about when.

Kenneth, Philippe, Rebecca, and Anna are home from school with the other children. They all look okay. Kenneth and Rebecca are studying already. Philippe is arguing with Edward, and Anna has joined the girls playing house in the corner.

Philippe and Edward start fighting! I rush over to stop them before someone gets hurt, but Maria gets there first and pulls them apart. I stop, my motherly compulsions suddenly targetless, and I watch Maria sit on the floor with them and softly talk to them. She's more patient than me.

I remember coming home from elementary school . . .
My mother would stop whatever she was doing and smile at me, and it was our time together. Whatever I was proud of that day, I would show her or tell her about it. She sometimes had made cookies for me.

My mother raised me to be the wonderful person I was. She gave so much of herself, and her time, and her energy, and her love. But she only had two children. She had to cook and clean too, but she had time for me.

None of my children are even looking at me. I want one of them to rush up and show me something from school, or tell me what happened in school.

Or just be excited to see me. I'm excited to see them.

But I don't blame them. I don't have time to be that kind of mother, not to nine children. And I have to do chores, and take care of Andrew, he needs me. Not to mention spending my last hour being serially gang-banged.

My children have adapted, like children do. To be honest, I don't know why they would pay more attention to me than any of the other women here they call "Mom."

So I bring my children into the world and feed them for six months, then they're mostly on their own. Which is, I realize, kind of what cows do for their calves. That kind of mothering.

The children I gave birth to, who I can't stop thinking of as my children, are being raised by the community. Taught by the community. Molded by the community. Learning the values of the community. And the men think they can educate my children better than me.

Elena, that cow, sometimes makes cookies for everyone. She's a lot better baker than me, but it takes her a much longer time to get pregnant. I'm the best breeder here.

I remember . . .
I was thinking vaguely in my mind that when Laura got old enough, we would leave. Maybe when she was two.

Then I found out I was going to be raped constantly. Sooner or later I would get pregnant. Then I would have five or six months before leaving would get physically difficult.

I confided to Cherone, "I'm thinking of leaving."

She held her belly and laughed. "You're a member of the community here. You can't leave."

"I know you need me." I looked around. Children to raise. Cleaning. "And I'll miss everyone." Not the men. Maybe Lucas, if the Lucas I knew was still somewhere inside that body. "But I can't live here any more. This isn't me. This isn't what I want to do with my life."

She looked at me very seriously. "You don't understand, Sister Grace. You're a member of New America now. You joined. You agreed to that. You actually can't leave."

"I can't leave?" I was back to being in a horror story.

"Nope. Try to enjoy being here. I hope you like woman things." She added, "I wouldn't complain if I was you."

"But . . . but . . . I have rights."

She looked at me scornfully. "Did you sign any papers here? Ever?"

Papers? What was she talking about? Then I remembered. "Yeah."

They had me sign papers when I was in labor with Laura. They said it was about medical consent or something. I didn't even look, I was in pain; I was far beyond whatever I thought my endurance level was. I was trying to push an eight pound one ounce human being out through my vagina.

"You probably signed 'em when you were in labor." How did she know that?

Oh! They probably do that to every woman.

"You probably didn't read them."

I shrug. Because no one does. We're in labor and just a little bit busy and distracted. I glanced at the first one, it looked like something medical.

"You got no power here. So the law don't matter. But don't think the law's on your side if you signed papers and you don't even know what they are."

She mumbled, "Stupid girl."

I started to pay attention to where I lived. High walls surrounded us, I thought to keep people out. But they kept me in. There was just one gate to enter and exit, and it was always guarded. That made sure no one entered who wasn't a part of the community. But if Cherone was right, that guard also made sure I didn't leave.

So everything that protected me from the outside world also kept me inside those walls. Everything I had seen as safety suddenly looked ominous.

Women never went to town for shopping, because we had too much to do here; men brought in all the supplies, even food and used clothing. No women never went for a walk outside the walls, because it wasn't safe. No women ever left to visit relatives, because the whole point was to leave that world behind.

No woman left the compound ever, for any reason. And I didn't even know where we were.

I went to the garage and looked at the cars. I was two months pregnant with Kenneth by then. I could get in a car, smash through the gate, and just keep driving. It might work.

But I didn't have a car seat for Laura, so I couldn't smash through any gate. I shouldn't even be driving with her and no car seat. As I was thinking about how to approximate a car seat, I saw the stick shift. My last boyfriend in high school had a car with a stick shift. But I never learned how to drive with it.

If I could somehow escape by foot into the surrounding desert, I would die. If I could somehow steal a car and drive it, they would follow me.

So I was a prisoner here. But unlike most prisoners and slaves, I had voluntarily come here. I was young and trusting and in love. But stupid.

Finally the food is cooked, and we're trying to feed all of the children. We put out the food for the kids who are old enough to eat by themselves, hoping they eat right but not really having the time to supervise them. The pre-toddlers need everyone's help. Sister Shelley, only two months pregnant, was already feeding soft foods to children fastened into high chairs.

Sister Cherone and Grandma Louise are going with the food to the men's dormitory; they'll feed the men and clean up there. I see Laura feeding Cherone's youngest. She has love in her eyes and caring in every move she makes.

In the middle of dinner, the door opens; I look up and see Mothball. His name used to be Frederick. He brought beautiful Alicia here, the fool.

He searches the room and then finds me. The men were never this relentless at finding me in my fertile time before. I feel like there's a reminder in the men's dorm to be sure to fuck me.

I'm eating my dinner. I need to eat. I stand up, he smiles, and I head to my bedroom, him meeting me there.

Mothball loves blow jobs. I have been eight months pregnant and kneeling in front of him giving him a blow job. He takes off his clothes. Normally I don't even bother taking off mine, but I know how this ends tonight – no sperm safely tucked into my mouth and transferred smoothly to my stomach where they can do no damage. It's fertility time. So I take off my clothes too.

As I start to kneel in front of him, he starts to get an erection. I hold his cock in my hand and it grows larger, and one breath on his cock and he has a complete erection. I start sucking on him.

I remember . . .
Almost two years ago, Alicia came to New America. She was young and beautiful. Most of the men wanted to have sex with her, and our lull in sexual activity was appreciated (except when we were fertile and the men either had to have sex with us or wanted to. The rules aren't clear.) So we hated her for being beautiful and making us feel ugly, but we really liked that she was here.

It was really hard on her. She kept walking around totally depressed, saying "I am just a cunt." Which is of course not how you're supposed to talk in front of children, and not how you're supposed to be a good Sister in the community of New America. But the men liked her here too, for obvious reasons, so everyone ignored her swearing and depression.

We shouldn't have. She had four fertile periods before she finally became pregnant, so she got a lot of sex. Then she walked around depressed and repeating, "I am just a baby factory."

My thoughts are interrupted by Mothball suddenly pulling out of my mouth. I forgot he wasn't supposed to cum in my mouth.

Then he ejaculates, mostly on the floor but also on me. He forgot too. I'm glad I took my clothes off.

He says, trying to sound commanding, "We're going to pretend like that didn't happen."

"Okay." But it did. The mechanics of being a man aren't simple. I would feel bad for him if he wasn't the fourth man to fuck me today.

I lay down on the bed. He's still hard enough to enter me, not that that's any great challenge – I sometimes feel like I've had more visitors than Carlsbad Cavern.

When Alicia was six months pregnant, she escaped from New America. She found a rope in the barn, tied it around her neck, tied the other end to a beam, and jumped from the second story.

Then our sex vacation was over.

I feel really bad for Alicia. But she was right, we're cunts and baby factories. I feel bad for all the women here. Including Laura. She doesn't even know about the life she's missing.

It takes Mothball forever to cum for a second time, so my dinner is going to be cold. But eventually he cums. Or pretends he does, I really don't care and it doesn't really matter – my Fallopian tubes have to already be experiencing gridlock.

I remember wondering . . .
What papers had I signed? Maybe they were just medical things, but it would be like Leader and New America to give me more. Worse case? Power of attorney. Leader could own me. Divorce papers. Even a marriage license, I guess. So I don't even know who I'm married to.

No, worse case would be adoption papers for Laura. Leader could own Laura too. If I left here with Laura, I might be charged with kidnapping.

I would be a criminal, running from the law, with no driver's license or any ID. I couldn't get a job without ID, and I would have two children to support by myself.

And then Kenneth was born, then Philippe, then Rebecca. My opportunity to leave completely shut down.

I mean, if the gate was accidentally open and unguarded, and there was a car sitting around with keys in it that I could drive, with my ID and a wad of money magically left in the passenger seat, I still couldn't leave -- I can't take nine children with me.

How would I support them? I couldn't sue for child support: Lucas has no cash, I don't even know if he's still my legal husband, and if New America knew my address to send me money, they would for sure come kidnap my kids.

If I left by myself, what kind of life would I have then? It would be empty, and I'd be constantly worried about my nine children I left behind. I could never desert my children.

I knew the black slaves in America couldn't escape because they would be hunted down. I never realized that they couldn't just walk away and leave their children to the slaveholder.

I don't wear my wedding ring any more. I was given a new wedding ring to wear. All the Sisters have the same ring, because we're all married to the community. After Lucas left me, I threw my old one in the garbage, diamond and all. I was angry.

As we're unloading the last dishwasher. I ask Cherone, "Do you ever fake an orgasm?"

She stops and laughs. "All the time, Sister Grace." She shakes her head. "All the time."

Her head jolts up to look at me. She asks, disbelievingly, "You don't fake orgasms?"

I shrug. "No. Why would I?"

"You have real orgasms?" She sounds incredulous.

I admit plaintively, "It's been a while on that."

She nods, finally understanding. "Hearing ya'." She puts the last few dishes away, then asks, "Do you fake being excited?"

I feel inadequate. "No."

"Do you ever get excited?"

"Not really."

She puts my hand on my shoulder so I don't leave. "They don't mind? You just lying there?"

"They don't seem to care. I'm not sure they even notice."

"Of course not." She shakes her head again. "Damn. I'll have to try that."

The Next Day

My weight is on my knees, my face is buried in my pillow, and he's fucking me from behind, trying to make me pregnant. Everyone else is eating breakfast. It's a normal morning for me.

The pillow cover was a pretty floral pattern in pink when I got it, but 12 years have faded it. My too hefty ass is in the air, and his hands are on my breasts, holding on to me. Victoria seemed too quiet last night at dinner. I wanted to talk to her after dinner, but I was being fucked. Then I didn't want to interrupt her while she was finishing her homework, but I got fucked again, and by the time he was done with me she had gone to bed.

So I want to talk to her this morning, but I'm with Mr. –

For a moment I can't remember who it is.

Man with dick. Why should I care who it is?

That afternoon Lawrence walks in. He recently turned 16 and moved into the men's dormitory.

He looks nervous. He searches the room and finds me. He walks nervously up to me. "Sister Grace, can we . . ." He's blushing and having trouble finishing. It's too embarrassing for him. He might even be a virgin.

I have pity on him. "Should we go to my bedroom, Lawrence?" I'm making this easy for him; all he has to do is nod yes.

He says angrily, "Mr. Lawrence to you, Sister." And he pinches my stomach. I'm so tired of being pinched.

But he's right, I forgot that he was now a man; I was treating him like a boy. I won't make that mistake again.

Anger apparently has cleared his head. "Let's go fuck."

Sigh. He was tolerable as a boy.

When we get to my room, he takes charge and tells me to take my clothes off. When they're off, he complains about me being overweight, but he doesn't stop staring at me. Apparently my body can still excite a naive 16-year-old. Another sad morsel for my pathetic ego.

He lasts about 30 seconds. Then he makes me hold my hips up in the air; he probably asked advice from Richard.

He takes advantage of my position to study my cunt.

I fed him and played with him when he was a boy. When I told him to behave, he had to. I stayed with him one night when he was sick. He called me "Mother." It's very strange to have him staring at my vagina.

After a few minutes, he loses interest in me and leaves. I want to collapse into my bed, but I'm afraid he might come back – he established male dominance with that pinch.

So I stay with my hips in the air a while longer. My egg must be wishing it had built an ark.

Janie suddenly starts wailing, looks around, and runs to me. I'm the nearest mother. She holds out her finger, and I can see that she cut it with the scissors. It's nothing serious, but it's bleeding. Glock just walked in, and there's cameras, so I have to follow the rules and take care of Janie.

I don't want to look up at Cherone, Janie's real mother; I hope she's in the kitchen and doesn't have to see this. But I look up anyway, and I can see the pain on her face. Then I see anger, partially at me.

And then her face goes blank. She's trying not to feel anything. Good strategy, though not easy to actually do.

I take Janie's hand and walk her to the medical supplies. I put on disinfectant, then a band-aid. Then I give it a kiss and pronounce it all better. Janie gives me a strong hug around my neck, a quick "Thanks, Mom," then runs back to her play.

My brain rewards me with pleasure – I'm happy to be needed and wanted. But I know how much Cherone wanted that hug. I'm the same way about my children, but I don't take it as hard as Cherone does. We're prisoners in a social experiment designed and run by men.

Glock looks around. He's supposed to have sex with me, but maybe he doesn't know that. So I try not to be easy to see. None of the women like Glock, and I'm so tired of being fucked.

And it works! He points at someone else and grunts. I'm happy until I see who he's pointing at – Cherone.

That's a really bad idea at this particular moment. Anyone but Cherone. I speak up, "I'm fertile." Cherone is still breastfeeding Tyron, so Glock is supposed to fuck me.

He looks at me, then he scowls. "I don't want seconds."

You aren't close to seconds. "Mr. Glock, are you sure?"

"Yeah. I'm coming back for you tomorrow morning."

He brushes past me and strides over to Cherone, who's still just sitting down. She looks up and him and then back down, like she's not interested. He takes her arm roughly and pulls her into the nearest bedroom, which happens to be mine. She's just letting herself be dragged; this isn't going well at all.

I wait, anxiously. After about 15 minutes he leaves. His face is scratched, there's bleeding, and he's smirking. Shit, shit, shit.

I walk into my bedroom, and Cherone is sitting lifelessly on my bed. I can see the bruise already forming on her cheek.

Shit. I help her dress, then I hold her. I don't know what to say. It's going to get better? Not really. Don't get angry? She knows that. She just got pushed too far this afternoon.

"I'm sorry about Janie."

"Not your fault." No, it wasn't. I'm required to help all children.

"I care for you, Sister Cherone." And that's the best I can do. I hug her.

"My name is Cherone."

I shrug. I know that. But I'm not allowed to call her that.

That night, after everyone has gone to bed, I hear my door open. I know it's Leader. He always comes late in the night when I'm fertile.

My breathing speeds up. I hate him, but his visit is already exciting me.

My room is still dark, but I jump up, quickly take off my dowdy nightgown.

I remember . . . wearing a negligee

Waiting.

I hear the hum of the vibrator, and my breathing speeds up even more.

And I feel the vibrator, probably the only vibrator within fifty miles, on my clit.

And I know what he's doing, and I should hate him for it, but it feels too good. I feel the pleasure, then more pleasure. I don't get a lot of sexual pleasure in my life, so my brain sops it up.

And Leader is my supplier.

The humming stops, as I knew it would, and Leader enters me and fucks me. I don't mind, I know what's coming after.

When he's done, and taken himself out of me, he dresses while I try to clean up the sperm dripping out of me. I've lost track of how many times I've done that in the last two days. Then I lie on my bed, naked, waiting.

And the humming starts again, and I feel the vibrator on me, and I'm lost in pleasure.

Then it's a mixture of pleasure and need, and then there's more need, and then I have a glorious orgasm. I can't make any noise of course, but I'm overwhelmed with happiness.

Then the humming stops, and I hear my door open and close.

I know he was probably thinking about something else, something important, while I lay under his vibrator. All he had to do was turn it on and hold it against me. I should hate him for manipulating me, for controlling my emotions. He just wants power over me.

But he has it. I love his midnight visits. I can feel my willingness to please, to make him happy.

Three Months Later

I momentarily don't have any chores and Alexander is sleeping, so I've walked out to the barn. The men are out working, so I'm here by myself.

"Hi Sister Patience. How are you feeling?" I feed a carrot to the cow I call Patience. We're both pregnant.

"Did you ever try to escape, Sister Patience?"

I look up to where Sister Alicia jumped from. They don't keep ropes here now. Always trying to prevent escape. But I don't have the courage to kill myself, so I'll never escape. And I could never leave my children, not even like that. This is my life. My role on earth.

Patience and Laura don't even know there's something to escape to.

"Do you ever fake an orgasm?" That's not a real question, but I've decided that it's an important social distinction: Does the male care whether or not the female is excited?

"Were you sexually excited when the bull impregnated you?" I wait for an answer, wishing I knew. "Was it worth it?" I know the answer to that question: No.

Sister Patience just looks at me. She looks uncomfortable, but that could be me projecting how I feel when I'm that pregnant. I feed her more carrot and pet the top of her head.

I have a new attitude. Acceptance. I tried to be like Sister Laura, but that was impossible. So Sister Patience is my role model. Our lives are about the same, but she's happy and I'm not. I want to be happy like her.

"You would be in the tenth commandment if you were an ox or a donkey, Sister Patience. Do you feel left out?"

I add reassuringly, "I think they meant all cattle. So you can feel included."

Wives are also in the tenth commandment, with the servants and cattle. And everything else that men own.

I try to accept that.


Mr. Badass points at me. I stand and smile at him. I say like I'm happy, "Me?"

Sister Laura looks jealous. I think she's angry at me because I get his attention and she doesn't. Your time will come, Sister Laura, you stupid child.

They added a new room to the main hall. It's officially called the Couples Room. Really, it's the Pornography Room.

Yes, he walks to that room. It's a popular choice. He unlocks the door – they don't want any children in here, so only the men have keys, I walk in, and he follows me in and locks the door.

The walls are covered with pictures. Women in bikinis. Naked women. Women with incredible breasts. Gorgeous young women. Everywhere.

I cannot explain what it is like to be a 34-year-old woman, 25 pounds overweight, with no make-up, looking and feeling tired, to be standing in this room and be surrounded by these impossibly beautiful women. I feel completely inferior and insignificant.

Their hair wasn't cut by a friend who had only a moment of free time. They have finger nail polish.

I start taking off my clothes; Mr. Badass is taking off his, but he's looking at the pictures as he undresses. I can't blame him for that. When he finishes undressing, he reverently touches one of the pictures.

I remember . . .
Lucas touching my breast reverently.

I lay in bed, waiting patiently. Eventually he looks at me and realizes I'm naked and he said he wanted to fuck me. He rushes to the bed, puts Vaseline in his cock, and thrusts into me.

And then he has sex while he looks at those beautiful faces and naked breasts. Mine are naked too, but they sag. I'm just the warm vagina here, the pictures on the wall supply the excitement.

This room is a lot faster – I'm sure the men of New America were only trying to make themselves happy, but they streamlined the process of sex.

I try to act excited, but when he doesn't notice I stop trying.

Mr. Badass relaxes for a moment after he cums. I try to take pride in my contribution to New America, but it's still difficult not to feel like he just used me.

I'm carting dishes into the kitchen after dinner when Mr. Wasp walks in. He points at me. I'd rather carry dishes, if I could choose which chore I had to do.

Women don't have a choice. I smile at Mr. Wasp, trying to show him my willingness to let him do whatever he wants to me.

Men are stronger and faster than women. We need them for protection and to provide. So, for thousands and thousands of years, they could have sex with a female whenever they wanted. Except if another man owned the woman and defended his property. And then her owner could have sex with that her whenever he wanted. It was probably all the same to her.

So for thousands and thousands of years, women were having babies and almost constantly pregnant or nursing. They couldn't stop that. And we're genetically built to care, so we can't stop caring for our children. If Lucas came back to me, I would care for him too.

Mr. Wasp takes me into the Couples Room. I take off my clothes and he takes off his clothes. He looks around the room and starts jerking on his cock; he wouldn't even notice me except I block his view of some of the pictures.

So my life is really a normal life for a woman. What I had before, in modern society, that was the anomaly.

He shoves his greased cock into me and keeps looking at the pictures. That's okay. I'm not competing with them. It's their job to look beautiful. I just supply the vagina. I'm doing a good job; I'm not complaining or distracting him. I act excited, he seems to speed up a little, so I keep acting excited.

I remember . . .
I once read that the average Pilgrim wife had 8 children. I thought that was a lot.

Now that number seems low and I'm jealous. But they too were baby factories. They were women.

I imagined the Pilgrim husbands and wives deciding together to go to America. That seems so naive now.

Mr. Wasp cums and I fake the world's quickest orgasm. I'm trying to be a good wife to the men. He pulls out. I start getting dressed.

Humans are mammals, just like the cows and horses and pigs. Males and females have sex and the females get pregnant. We give birth, and then the infants suck our milk. And that continues our species. I'm just playing my part in a cosmic cycle.

The dishes are all cleared; I walk into the kitchen and Sister Laura is helping with the finish of cleanup. I smile rewardingly at her. Good girl. I want her to like herself. I want to love her for who she is.

I, Sister Grace, declare that this is normal. Keeping me in a nearly constant state of either being pregnant or nursing is normal. Men putting their semen in me, without my permission, is normal. Having nine children and being pregnant with a tenth, with no end to this until menopause, is normal.

Knowing that my sons will grow up to use women, that's normal too. Knowing my daughters will be used and spend up to 30 years of their lives being either pregnant or nursing, given no vote or say in how the community is run, and not allowed to leave, that's normal too.

I don't have a passport. They took away my driver's license. Legally, I might not exist. I might have renounced my U.S. citizenship. Given up power of attorney. If my children have birth certificates, I don't know who's listed as the mother.

So I have stopped becoming a person with rights. I've become a historically normal woman.

I have breasts. I have a vagina. I have a uterus. More than forty children call me Mother. I help feed and take care of those children. Nine of those are my biological children.

And a tenth is currently hijacking my body and emotions. I have no power, no control over that either.

I am trying to accept.